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  Honored where? Arlington National Cemetery?

  He had some good news. “Your assignment in Yemen would actually be over as soon as you apprehend this man.”

  Good incentive to wrap it up in a week. The other side of that deal is that our assignment could be over if this guy found us first.

  Tom looked at me and said, “This assignment will give you ample opportunity to demonstrate your sometimes unorthodox methods, which are not always appreciated here, but will be invaluable over there.”

  How should I take that? Loose cannon makes good in Sandland?

  Kate said, “We’ll think about it.” Then she asked Tom, “Can only one of us say yes?”

  He nodded.

  Well, I was seeing the old handwriting on the wall here. What did I do with my desert duds from my last trip to Sandy Arabia?

  Tom stood and we also stood. He said, “I’ll see you both here in my office, Monday, nine A.M. Have a good weekend.”

  We shook, and Kate and I left.

  On the way back to our cube farm, I suggested, “Let’s get a drink.”

  She didn’t reply immediately, then said to me, “John, we have to do this.”

  “Absolutely, and we’ll have dinner, too. Where would you like to go?”

  “We have to go to Yemen.”

  “Why not Ecco’s?”

  “I’m going.”

  “Good. Should I call ahead for a table?”

  “And I’d like you to go with me.”

  “I wouldn’t let you drink alone.”

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “No.”

  We grabbed our coats, rode down in the elevator, and exited the lobby of 26 Federal Plaza onto lower Broadway.

  It was windy and cold on the street, but I like the cold. Good drinking weather. Yemen was hot and alcohol was illegal.

  On the plus side, I could, as Tom said, and as I had discovered myself in Yemen, be free of the bureaucratic bullshit here, and free of the political correctness that permeated 26 Federal Plaza. I could be me. Nuts.

  Also… I had the feeling that someone in Sandland needed to be whacked. That could be interesting. I mean, I never had or wanted a license to kill—but I could conceive of a situation where this might be necessary and right. Especially since 9/11.

  This was a lot to think about, and I think better at the bar.

  We got to Ecco’s on Chambers Street, and as we made our way to the crowded bar, Kate said to me, “We’re getting into a rut here. I’m ready for a change. An adventure.”

  “Let’s go to a different bar.”

  “We’ll appreciate our lives and jobs more when we come back.”

  “Right.” But not everyone who went to Yemen came back.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ecco’s is an Italian restaurant, but the bar is sort of old New York, though the prices are new New York.

  The place was hopping on this cold Friday night after work, and most of the clientele were lawyers, judges, police officials, and politicians whose wallets hadn’t seen the light of day in years.

  Kate and I found a place at the bar, said hello to a few people we knew, and ordered the usual—Dewar’s and soda for me, a Pinot Grigio for the lady.

  Kate asked me, “Are there any places in Sana’a or Aden where you can get a drink?”

  “Is that all you think about?”

  My ex, Robin by name, is a high-priced criminal defense attorney, and she introduced me to this place years ago, and she still comes here. I don’t care, and I don’t dislike her, but I don’t like her life’s work, which is defending the scumbags I spent twenty years trying to put in jail. That caused some strain on the short marriage. Now I’m married to another lawyer. As I often say, I like to screw lawyers.

  Kate and I clinked and said grace. “Thank God it’s Friday.” There was a piano in the corner, and the player was just getting started. I said to Kate, “Ask him to play ‘Midnight at the Oasis.’ ”

  She rolled her big baby blues.

  A word about Kate Mayfield, a.k.a. Kate Corey. We met on the job when we were both working on the first Asad Khalil case. FBI and NYPD are different species, but we fell in love, married—about four years ago—and it’s still heaven.

  Kate is a little younger than me—actually, about fourteen years—and the age difference is not an issue; she’s mature beyond her years, and I can’t seem to grow up.

  She’s originally from Minnesota, as I said, and her father is retired FBI and her mother is a loon. They both hate me, of course, but being from Minnesota they’re really nice about it.

  Also on the plus side, Kate and I have been shot at together, which is good for any relationship, and she’s cool under fire. If she has any faults, aside from her divided loyalty, it’s that she doesn’t fully appreciate my NYPD work habits or methods. Also, the Feds are almost humorless, while cops are funny. I’m trying to get more serious, and Kate is trying to see the funny side of terrorists.

  Away from the job, we get along well. I wondered, though, how we’d do in Yemen, where we’d be on the job together 24/7. Maybe she’d appreciate my cowboy style better in a place where the only law is a man with a gun. Better yet, maybe we’d never find out.

  I asked for a table and was happy to learn it would be a thirty-minute wait. “Another round,” I said to the bartender. Can’t walk on one leg.

  Kate said to me, “If we don’t take this assignment, your contract may not be renewed, and I may wind up in Washington.”

  “He’s bluffing.”

  “He’s not.”

  “I don’t respond well to threats,” I assured her.

  “It’s not a threat. It’s a transfer.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Would you live in Washington?”

  “I’d rather live in Yemen.”

  “Good. We’ll be together. In a year, we’ll be back in New York.”

  “Right. It’s that year in Yemen that might be a career killer.”

  She didn’t reply.

  Regarding my last visit to Yemen in August 2001, the same month I was there, Kate was in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, as a legat investigating the 1998 U.S. Embassy bombing, which was an Al Qaeda attack, planned by Osama bin Laden, whose name was then unknown to most of the American public. A short time after Kate and I returned from our respective overseas assignments, Osama bin Laden and Al Qaeda both became famous for murdering three thousand people.

  Our separate assignments overseas, by the way, were a sort of punishment—or a warning—resulting from my and Kate’s unauthorized snooping into the mysterious midair explosion of TWA Flight 800. So off we went. Kate to Dar es Salaam, which was not such a bad place to be, and me to Yemen, which is like the Siberia of the Task Force, though I did feel like I was doing something useful. We returned to New York a few days apart, as I said, just in time for September 11. Tom Walsh was not the boss then, so I can’t say he was now making another effort at adjusting my attitude. So what was he up to? Kate was taking this at face value. I was not. Tom doesn’t do things for people; he does things to people. Also, this came from higher up. John Corey has to go to Yemen. But why?

  Anyway, all this was running through my mind as I stood at the bar in Ecco’s, observing Western civilization at its best or worst, thinking about my career, my marriage, my country, my life, and my future.

  I normally don’t reflect on any of this, and I pride myself on a low level of introspection and zero self-awareness. But I’d just been unexpectedly presented with a life-changing choice, and I needed to think about my response.

  Kate asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

  “There’s a new Monet exhibit at the Met.”

  She looked doubtful, then said, “John… if you don’t want to go, I will understand.”

  I said to her, “You should take my word that this is not a place you want to be for a year.”

  She reminded me, “A lot of our people are or were there. And we have troops in places like Ira
q and Afghanistan who are making great sacrifices every day.” She informed me, “You can’t pick where you want to fight a war. You have to go where the enemy is.”

  “They’re here, Kate,” I reminded her. “We’re manning the ramparts of Fortress America.”

  She thought about that, then said, “We’ve done a good job here. But now we need to go into the belly of the beast.”

  “The asshole,” I corrected.

  Our table was ready, and as we made our way through the restaurant, who should I see but my ex, sitting with yet another beau. I mean, this lady has had more mounts than a Pony Express rider.

  She saw me and waved, so I went to her table and said hello and got introduced to Mr. Right Now, who looked like he was about halfway through a sex change operation.

  Kate, who is cool about this, said hello to Robin and her date, and Robin asked us, “How’s the war on terrorism going?”

  I informed her, “The alert level is still yellow.”

  Robin didn’t respond to that, but said, “God, sometimes I think they’re going to blow this place up.”

  Kate had a nice comeback and said, “Why would anyone want to kill lawyers, judges, and politicians?”

  Robin wasn’t sure how to take that and asked me, “Are you still in the apartment?”

  The apartment in question is the former marital residence, a very expensive place on East 72nd Street that Robin had lived in when I met her. She’d signed over the long-term lease to me on her way out, a very nice gesture that took care of most of my monthly income. I said, “Still there.”

  “Good. I wanted to send you both an invitation for a fund-raiser I’m running. It’s for the Downtown Association for the Arts.” She explained, “To raise money to commission artists to create murals and sculpture in Lower Manhattan.”

  More shit.

  “It’s at the downtown Ritz-Carlton. Black tie. March twenty-sixth. You’ll be my guests.”

  I found myself saying, “Thanks, but we’ll be out of the country.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Classified.”

  “Oh… well… good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  We followed the hostess to our table, and Kate asked me, “Does that mean you’d rather go to Yemen with me than a black-tie fund-raiser with your ex-wife?”

  “You know I’d follow you to hell.”

  “Good. We leave next week.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was Saturday, and Kate and I agreed not to discuss Yemen until Sunday evening.

  Kate went to the office Saturday morning to clean up some paperwork and to identify cases that she would need to hand off if, in fact, she was going to Yemen.

  I had an appointment with a guy named Nabeel, who coincidentally was from Yemen. I didn’t know Nabeel, but he’d called the ATTF office, using only his first name, asking for me by my full name, and saying to me that we had a mutual friend. I doubt that, but that’s how I get half of my contacts in the Muslim community; my business card is all over town. Well, Muslim neighborhoods. It pays to advertise.

  My brief phone conversation with Nabeel revealed that his legal status in the country was a little shaky, and he wanted some help with that in exchange for some information he had. Nabeel worked in a delicatessen in Brooklyn, so I wasn’t sure what kind of information he had for me. Phoney baloney? Exploding beans?

  A little-known factoid is that many Yemeni immigrants work in delis in Brooklyn and Queens. Why? Who knows? Why do the Turks own so many gas stations? Why do Indians own all the 7-Elevens? Who cares as long as the Irish still run the pubs?

  Anyway, I told Nabeel to meet me in Ben’s Kosher Deli on West 38th Street, a place unlikely to be frequented by others of the Islamic faith—though, ironically, kosher food is halal, meaning okay for Muslims, so this works.

  And here I was now in Ben’s, sitting in a booth across from Nabeel. He had to get back to his deli in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, so this was going to be a happily short meeting.

  Nabeel looked to be about mid-thirties, but he was probably younger, with a scruffy beard, dark skin, and teeth stained green by khat—a narcotic leaf that keeps ninety percent of the male population of Yemen perpetually stoned and happy. I wished I had some now.

  Nabeel ordered tea and a bagel with cream cheese, and I had coffee.

  I asked Nabeel, “Where did you get my name?”

  “I tell you on phone. From friend.” He also reminded me, “Can not tell you friend.”

  “Was it Abdul?”

  “Who Abdul?”

  “Which Abdul. Who’s on first?”

  “Sir?”

  “Talk.”

  Nabeel talked. “There is big plot from peoples of Al Qaeda. Saudi peoples. No Yemen. All Saudi. Plot is to make bomb exploding in New York.”

  “Can you be a little more specific?” And maybe grammatical?

  “Yes? What more?”

  “Bomb where? When? Who?”

  “I have all information. I give you. I need work visa.”

  Maybe I could give him my visa to Yemen. I asked him, “You have ID on you? Passport?”

  “No.”

  They never do. I really didn’t want to speak to this guy unless I could see his passport, so I said to him, “I need you to come to my office.” I took a card from my pocket and asked him, “What’s your last name?”

  He gave me a scrap of paper on which his name was written in badly formed Latin letters—Nabeel al-Samad—saying to me, “I copy this from passport.” He said proudly, “I can sign name.”

  “Wonderful.” I wrote on the back of my business card, Nabeel al-Samad to see Det. Corey. I signed it, dated it, and handed it to him, saying, “I’ll have an Arabic translator and I’ll have someone from Immigration for you to talk to. Capisce?”

  “Yes? You arrest me in office?”

  “No. I can arrest you here.” And fuck up my day. Not to mention yours.

  “Talk here first.”

  “Okay. Talk.”

  Nabeel confided that he was in contact with people who knew more about this bomb plot, but he needed more time—like a six-month visa—to get the details. Sounded like bullshit. But you never know.

  Finally, he agreed to come into the office on Monday if he could get the morning off. These guys work twelve-hour days, six or seven days a week, and they send what amounts to a fortune home to their wife and ten kids. A deli in Brooklyn is like a gold mine in Yemen.

  I asked him, “Where you from in Yemen?”

  He named some place that sounded like “Ali Baba.”

  “You like it there?”

  “Yes. Beautiful country. Good people.”

  “Then why do you want to stay here?”

  “No work in Yemen. I go home, two months. Three months. See family. Come again here. Go again Yemen.”

  A Yemeni jet-setter. I tore a sheet out of my notebook, gave it to him with a pen, and said, “Write your info.”

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t write English beyond his name, so I said, “In Arabic.” No luck. Illiterate in two languages. “Spanish?”

  “Sir?”

  Three languages. I asked him the name of his deli in Brooklyn, his place of residence, and his cell phone number.

  He spoke—slowly, please—and I wrote in my notebook, saying to him, “I want to see you Monday morning at 26 Federal Plaza or I’ll send a police car to pick you up. Have your passport with you. And your visa—expired or not. They’ll have your name at security. Bring my card. Understand?”

  He nodded.

  I dialed the cell number he’d given me and it rang in his pocket. Trust, but verify. I threw a twenty on the table and left.

  I was supposed to meet Kate at the Met to see the stupid Monet exhibit. I should learn to keep my mouth shut.

  I had some time, so I began walking the forty blocks. Good exercise.

  I thought about Nabeel. Most informants have or can get you some information, or they wouldn’t come to you. All of th
em want something in return. I’ve never seen a Mideastern informant who just wanted to do their civic duty to their adopted country. In Nabeel’s case, as with most of them, he wanted permanent citizenship or a green card in return for ratting out someone. Sometimes they just wanted money. Money for informants was easy—green cards not so easy. Meanwhile, I still can’t figure out why they want to live here. Could it be that their beautiful countries suck?

  I have a theory about immigration. Wherever you were born, stay there.

  Kate and I made cell phone contact and met at the Met. We had lunch in the museum restaurant, then went to the Monet exhibit. Was this guy going blind? Or do I need glasses?

  Saturday night we joined two other couples at Michael Jordan’s Steak House. This is a cool place. Cholesterol and testosterone.

  The restaurant is located on the balcony above the Grand Central Station Concourse, with an overhead view of the famous clock under which lovers and others meet. I watched the mass of humanity arriving and departing by train—a scene that hasn’t changed much in a hundred years, except now there were soldiers and police watching everything. No one seemed to notice them anymore; they were part of life now. That sucks.

  Cops tend to hang with cops, but I’ve expanded my social circle since joining the Task Force, and tonight we were with Feds. Fortunately, the two guys, Ed Burke and Tony Savino, were ex-cops like me, working for the Feds like everyone else these days. One of the wives, Ann Burke, was an MOS—Member of the Service—and still on the job, working in the 103rd Precinct. The other lady, Marie Savino, was a stay-at-home mom with two crumb snatchers under five and one in the oven.

  Which gave me an idea. If Kate were to get pregnant—like about four hours from now—then the Yemen thing was off. I reached under the table and ran my hand over her thigh. She smiled.

  Anyway, we tend not to talk business when we’re out, but tonight I said, “Kate and I have been asked to apply for a posting to Yemen.”

  Ed Burke, a former NYPD detective with the Intelligence Unit, advised, “Just say no.”

  Tony Savino said, “I know two guys who were there.”

  I inquired, “What do they say about it?”